Lose and Regain
by Bosmeri
Summary: They may have lost a lot over the course of the war, but in the end, what they regained is far more important...


Two years. It certainly didn't feel like just two years. The war had stretched the past twenty-four months into an entire lifetime. Nothing was the same. The Civil War may have ended, but it would be a very long time before Skyrim was able to mend itself again. Even Riverwood was different. The people had changed over the course of the war. Or maybe he was the one who was different. No longer the laughing youth who had proudly marched into Windhelm to join a cause he barely understood, Ralof was quieter now, more serious. He had grown up, he supposed. He hadn't had a choice, really.

Sighing, Ralof of Riverwood pushed a stray wisp of straw-blond hair out of his face and crossed his arms on the wooden railing of his sister's mill. From up here, he could see the paved road leading north to Whiterun, and he looked out at the sun setting over the hills and forest, taking in the gradual fade of orange to red with his remaining eye. He scratched absently at the freshly-healed scars on his cheek and tugged at the strip of cloth covering his empty socket. A souvenir of the final battle of the war. Ralof figured it was a small price to pay compared to the many who had lost much more than just an eye.

When the sun was low in the sky and Ralof was just about to head inside, he happened to see a single figure making its way up the road from Whiterun, shuffling slowly as if dragging the entire weight of the world behind him. Another soldier returning home.

Wordlessly, Ralof descended the stairs from the mill and fell into step alongside the soldier. Then, they stopped just before the edge of town.

"It's been a long time."

"Aye."

A pause, then, "You're an eye shorter than I last saw you."

"Really? I hadn't noticed."

The joke fell flat. Neither man really cared.

"I… I'm glad to see you," said Ralof hesitantly. "I'm glad you're okay."

The other sighed heavily. "Me, too. Glad you're alright, I mean."

Ralof noticed the crutch the other was leaning on, partially hidden by the travel pack he had slung over his shoulder and accounting for his slow shuffle.

"Are you…?" ventured Ralof.

"It'll heal," he shrugged, glancing down at the leg he was favoring heavily. Then Ralof noticed the arm not holding the crutch, and bitter-tasting bile rose in his throat as he saw the sleeve hanging loosely at his side. With a shaking hand, Ralof reached for the arm and pulled back the sleeve. The other man let him.

"This won't, though," said Ralof softly. His arm was wrapped in bandages and ended just below the elbow.

"Neither will your eye," was the almost-whispered response.

"Hadvar, I-"

"-Don't. Just don't. It's over now. We're home."

Neither man spoke for quite some time. Then, Ralof finally said quietly, "So, now what?"

"We go back to where we left off, or try to anyway," said Hadvar.

"Can we, though?" asked Ralof sadly. He remembered the bitterness, the fights, the final confrontation that had ended a childhood friendship and sent them off to opposite ends of a pointless war. How stupid they had been, so sure of the righteousness of each of their causes. They knew better now, though. War had aged them both.

Hadvar looked at Ralof then. Had he always looked that wise? Ralof couldn't remember.

"We can try, my friend. We can certainly try."

Ralof smiled then, a real smile, as a weight he had almost forgotten was there suddenly seemed to lift, just a little. He grabbed Hadvar's bag and slung it over his shoulder.

"Come on. Gerdur and the family are in Whiterun for the night. I made stew."

Hadvar returned the smile gratefully. "Thanks, Ralof."

They fell into a comfortable silence as they slowly spanned the remaining distance to Gerdur's house where Ralof was staying. Just like that, they were back to when they were children again, playing in the river and terrifying each other with stories of draugr climbing down from the Barrow. The war vanished from each of their minds for the moment. It didn't matter whose side won and whose side lost. They were home now. Nothing else mattered.

At one point, Hadvar's remaining hand brushed Ralof's, but neither of them pulled away or jerked back. With that simple action, Ralof and Hadvar were able to communicate the words that they would never dare to verbalize.

_I forgive you._

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Originally posted on the Skyrim Kink Meme on LJ. Reviews feed my delicate ego.


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